Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

"I want people who don't freeze when something crawls out of the dark and starts casting spells that rewrite anatomy," Lindarion replied.

That drew a short, low noise from someone in the back. A chuckle. Maybe respect.

The red-haired merc tilted his head. "You're serious."

"Yes."

"You look like a kid."

"I kill like someone who isn't."

A pause.

Then the merc grinned. It wasn't pleasant. "Fine. Say we follow. What's the job?"

Lindarion answered clearly. "The ones who hit Evernight. The ones who took me. I'm not waiting for them to try again."

A few heads turned now. Quiet muttering. One woman leaned forward, her fingers drumming the table in thought. Another merc with knives along his ribs, literally sewn into his coat, just watched.

Red-hair nodded once.

Then jerked his thumb toward the table. "Pull up a seat, Prince. Let's hear your offer."

Lindarion didn't sit.

Not yet.

He just said, "You get paid in gold. And answers. And if we're lucky—revenge."

—

They didn't all speak at once.

Mercenaries rarely did. The loud ones died early. The smart ones waited to see if this new employer was about to get stabbed, or do the stabbing.

Lindarion still didn't sit. He stood by the fire pit, heat behind him, cold steel in every pair of eyes around the room.

Sylric slouched in a creaking chair behind him, sipping something that definitely wasn't tea.

Lira stayed standing, arms crossed, by the wall.

Luneth didn't move from her spot in the shadows. She hadn't spoken since entering. But she hadn't blinked either.

The red-haired merc who'd challenged him first finally took a seat, one leg up on a bench.

"Alright, then," he said. "You want to know who's coming with you. Let's not waste your time."

He jerked a thumb toward his chest.

"Name's Kael. Axe's name's Graythirst. One of us's been through three wars. I'll let you guess which." He grinned, wide and sharp, and leaned back. His right eye was cloudy, his left a hard amber that didn't look away.

Next to him, a tall, narrow woman with silver hair and deep brown skin adjusted the dagger at her hip with one finger. She didn't smile.

"Velna," she said, voice quiet but razor-clear. "Stealth. Close kills. Night work. You won't hear me coming,unless I want you to."

Her eyes,gray and faintly violet,flicked to Luneth. The stare lasted a second too long to be casual. Then she looked away.

Next came a man with black hair streaked in white,natural or dyed, it was hard to say. His arms were crossed, and two short swords rested in a scabbard designed for speed, not show. His face was weathered but not old, and his right ear was missing the tip.

"Derran," he said. "Blades. Field command, when needed. I don't talk much. I do what's paid."

Straightforward.

The kind Lindarion could use.

A chair creaked near the back as someone leaned forward. This one looked younger,short-cropped brown hair, a crooked nose, one gold tooth.

A wand was tucked behind one ear, held with a leather cord. His boots didn't match, and neither did his eyes,one brown, one silver.

"Call me Stitch," he said. "Healer. Sort of. Flesh mender. Bone patcher. Also… chemistry. Sometimes explosions. Not always intentional."

Sylric made a small noise behind Lindarion.

"Gods, I forgot he talks."

Stitch grinned. "You miss me."

"I don't."

Next to Stitch sat a woman with ash-blonde hair in a tight braid. Her build was lean, wiry. Her arms were scarred from wrist to shoulder. Not decorative. Lived-in. She didn't look up from sharpening a wicked-looking spear.

"Name's Rythe," she said. "Spear and weather sense. I track storms better than maps."

Lindarion raised a brow. "Magic?"

"No," she said. "Nerves."

He respected that.

One last figure stood near the back,hood up, arms folded. They hadn't spoken, and even now, as the room quieted, they hesitated.

Then finally, a low voice:

"Mekir."

Nothing more.

Lindarion looked closer.

The cloak parted just enough to catch a flash of pale green eyes,and faint scales around the neck. Mixed blood. Draconic, maybe. Or worse. Mekir didn't elaborate. They didn't need to.

Kael glanced at them, then looked back to Lindarion.

"That's the crew. Some of us owe Sylric. Some of us owe the wrong people more. We'll take your job, prince,but you lead clean. No noble lies. No second-guessing when the dark gets close."

Lindarion didn't hesitate.

"You get honesty. You get pay. You get names to burn. But I'm not bleeding for speeches, and I'm not slowing down for anyone who can't keep up."

Kael leaned back, grinning wider now.

"Sounds like a job."

Lira finally moved, stepping forward just enough to be seen.

"They'll need a code. Uniforms. Signs. If they're going to move near cities."

Sylric waved that off. "I'll forge half their paperwork. The rest will make themselves useful."

Luneth still didn't speak.

But she nodded once.

Subtle.

Approval.

Lindarion stepped toward the fire and unlatched his coat.

He reached inside, pulled out a small scroll case, and held it up.

"I've got the first trail. Old reports. Mage activity outside the eastern mountain line. Someone's been carving spells into cave walls out there. Looking for something."

Kael's grin faded slightly.

Velna looked interested now.

Stitch leaned forward. "How recent?"

"Two weeks. A scout team vanished. Their last message mentioned masks."

That got a full pause from the room.

Mekir's head lifted slightly.

Lindarion tucked the case back into his coat. "We leave before dawn."

Kael cracked his knuckles. "Then we better finish our drinks."

And just like that—

The war began again.

—

The others had drifted into sleep or silence.

Spearheads leaned against chairs. Blades checked and oiled. Drinks drained. The fire had dipped low, casting a muted orange haze across the stone floor.

Lindarion sat near the edge of the room, back to a cold pillar, fingers laced around a cup of water he hadn't touched.

Sylric dropped down beside him without ceremony, coat dragging half the floor's grime with it. His eyes were dull, beard more uneven than usual, and his general aura said, do not expect optimism from this conversation.

"You did well," he muttered.

"They didn't stab me," Lindarion said. "So by mercenary standards, that's basically a love letter."

Sylric snorted once. Then leaned back, arms draped over his knees.